


If The Heavens Ever Did Speak

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: (ps: yes my title is a hozier lyric. I can be a basic bitch if I want), ...okay no I got nothing you got me this is a catholicism fetish fic, @ Flambeau this doesn't count as therapy get help, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Flambeau is touch-starved and horny and doesn't know how to deal with emotions, Hand Jobs, I may still have got some stuff wrong, I spent hours researching catholic vestments but shockingly I am not a member of the clergy, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Light Bondage, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, alternate title for this fic is just I'm So Sorry Catholics, and 'sorry daddy I've been very naughty', and this fic straddles that line perfectly, barely there, before you say I have a catholicism fetish let me explain to you a thing, but bondage does poke its head in and wave at us, do not read this fic if you are catholic and blasphemy upsets you, like very light, okay but I cannot emphasise enough there is blasphemy in this fic, okay sinners see you in real non-sexy confession, sometimes there's a very fine line between 'forgive me father for I have sinned, sorry catholics, wildly improper use of the confessional box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Flambeau is here to confess his sins.Father Brown is here to absolve them.
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 30
Kudos: 51





	If The Heavens Ever Did Speak

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

Flambeau sat in the familiar confessional box, so close to the man he had come to see, yet separated by hard wood, anxiously awaiting a response.

“Hercule.” The voice was matter of fact: a statement, not a question. He did not question Flambeau’s presence there, and only the slightest intake of breath, barely noticeable to someone not watching and listening intently, betrayed any surprise. He did not sound at all displeased to hear him either, Flambeau noted. That was a good sign. “Is it too much to hope that you’re finally ready to confess your sins before God?”

Flambeau grinned to himself. The rush of hearing that familiar voice, the thrill of falling back into the game between them. “I am here to confess,” he said, lightly, as though the conversation was not particularly interesting or noteworthy. “Though not all my sins at once, I fear that might take rather too long. I thought perhaps we could take it slow. Focus on one sin at a time. And your God and I are hardly on the best terms, so I thought I’d confess directly to you instead.”

He chanced a glance sideways, to gage the reaction his words had caused. A flicker of some emotion over the priest’s face. Surprise, perhaps? It was hard to judge, for just as soon as the emotion appeared, it was gone.

“…Very well,” Father Brown said, after a heavy pause. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Some would say my sole purpose is to be God’s vessel on this earth, after all.”

Another pause hung thick and weighted in the air. Flambeau’s mouth suddenly felt unusually dry.

“…Whenever you’re ready.” Unless it was Flambeau’s imagination, there was just the faintest tinge of concern to the priest’s patient tone. He supposed it _was_ unusual for the great Hercule Flambeau to be floundering for words.

Flambeau swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve slept with married women, Father.” He took another glance sideways. He was edging out slowly, testing the waters.

Father Brown blinked in genuine surprise at that. His calm, pious, confessional persona slipped, just for a minute, revealing Brown the man beneath. “Is that _really_ what you came here to say, Hercule? _Really_? We both know you’ve done far worse than that.”

Flambeau huffed a small laugh at his priest’s disbelief and exasperation. “I did say I was taking it slowly, Father.”

“But _still_ -”

“Hush, Father. There’s more.”

Through the corner of his eye, Flambeau could see Father Brown turn to glance at him then, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, searchingly. “Carry on then,” came the soft reply.

Flambeau closed his eyes and sighed, trying to silence the hammering of his heart, before opening them again and continuing. “I’ve slept with married men, too, Father.” Though he kept his composure, kept his voice calm and casual, he did not dare turn to see the reaction to that.

He heard a quiet gasp, then a small, quiet “…Oh.”

Had his heart not been hammering out of his chest, Flambeau would have found it adorable. He took the Father’s otherwise silent response as an invitation to push on.

“I’ve slept with unmarried men too, of course,” he said, as flippantly as he could muster. “And had impure thoughts about many more. I’ve had impure thoughts, fantasies, _longings_ , about men I know full well either will not ever or could not ever think of me the same way, who would be disgusted to know I thought of them like that. Is that wicked, Father?”

He braved a glance then. Father Brown had a strange faraway sadness to his face that Flambeau couldn’t quite read or understand. “It’s not a sin to crave companionship, Hercule,” the priest spoke, in the softest, gentlest voice Flambeau had ever heard, and Flambeau almost melted.

“That’s not what your church says.” Flambeau was unable to keep the bitter twinge of resentment out of his voice, but he trusted Brown would understand it wasn’t meant for him.

Father Brown gave a wry half-smile. “Perhaps the church isn’t always right.”

Flambeau smiled, a wave of affection rushing over him. He had received the reassurance he desired. He could, he _should_ leave it there. He didn’t have to say any more. It would be foolish, madness even, to risk everything and carry on talking. He should, by all rights, trust his usually keen self-preservation instincts and leave now. No-one would think it odd.

He continued to sit there.

He must have sat there in silence for quite a while, because Father Brown sounded genuinely concerned when he spoke again. “Hercule?” he said. “…Was there something else you wanted to say?”

Flambeau blinked, searching for what to say, his mouth dry. _Say no,_ said the voice of reason in his head. “Yes,” said his mouth. _Dammit!_ “Yes Father, there was something else.”

Another heavy, pregnant pause hung thick in the air.

The Father’s voice was almost infuriatingly calm, soothing even. “You know whatever you tell me stays between us,” he said, gently coaxing Flambeau to continue.

 _He even has the consideration to not add “and God”,_ Flambeau thought in exasperation. _Why does he have to be so damned **nice?** This would be so much easier if he wasn’t so nice. _He licked his lips, closed his eyes, and steeled himself.

“I’ve been having impure thoughts about a priest, Father,” he said.

Silence.

Silence, only broken by the hammering of Flambeau’s own heart.

He dared not open his eyes.

He was past the point of no return now. He may as well continue, and be damned with the consequences.

“I’ve been having… thoughts. Fantasies. Longings. But it feels different this time.” He spoke, but it felt as though his voice was coming from somewhere far away, as though in a dream, or a trance. “It’s usually just a… A passing infatuation. A brief obsession with the unobtainable, nothing more. I let my fantasies run wild for a few weeks, pleasure myself at the thought a few times, and then it fades. But it hasn’t this time. It doesn’t. Every fantasy, every childish daydream, just leads to more fantasies and daydreams, it’s getting completely out of hand. He’s all I think about now, every time I touch myself, every time I allow myself to daydream, every time I lie awake alone, unable to sleep. Even when I try and picture anyone else, it’s always only his eyes I see, his voice I hear. I can’t even sleep with other people anymore, I always end up wishing I was with him instead, even though I keep telling myself it’s impossible. I’ve even started dreaming about him. I think I’m going mad, Father.”

“Hercule…” Father Brown’s voice cracked slightly, sounding strangled, the emotion behind it impossible to read. Flambeau still could not bring himself to open his eyes.

“Isn’t it ridiculous, Father? Years of avoiding the clergy, cheating and stealing from the church, and I’ve actually grown inordinately _fond_ of this one priest. I actually _care_ about him.” Flambeau could hear his voice becoming vaguely hysterical, but he could not stop the words flowing freely, now. “And do you know the worst part, Father?”

“Hercule, _please_ -”

Flambeau continued as though he hadn’t heard. “The worst part is, it _could_ never work between us. It couldn’t. I’ve- I’ve done such dreadful things, and he’s- well, the man’s practically a _saint._ I’ve hurt him, and used him, and lied to him, and then had the nerve to go away and fantasise about him, I don’t deserve him anyway Father, and even if- Even if he _was_ \- Even if he _did_ \- How could it ever work? How could he ever trust me, knowing the things I’ve done in the past? How could he ever put that aside?”

“Perhaps he forgives you, Hercule,” Father Brown murmured, painfully softly, while Flambeau paused for breath.

Flambeau gave a bitter laugh. “Then he’s a fool.”

“…Perhaps. But perhaps your priest has grown inordinately fond of you, too.”

Flambeau’s racing brain ground to a halt. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed to stop beating. _He can’t have just said what I think he just said,_ he thought, foolishly. _And even if he did, surely he didn’t mean what it sounded like he means._ He wondered briefly if it was too late to run away and pretend this entire conversation never happened.

“…What?” he said, his voice sounding irritatingly faint, as though it came from somebody else.

“I said-”

“No, I heard what you _said_ ,” Flambeau snapped, irritably. “It’s just that what you _said_ is ridiculous. Quite impossible.”

“Not impossible. Improbable, yes, but sometimes, Hercule,” Father Brown spoke, frustratingly calmly and patiently, as though explaining to a particularly slow child. “Things which people may consider impossible _do_ happen. They’re called miracles. And miracles are rather my area of expertise, wouldn’t you say?”

Flambeau considered his next words carefully. “He wouldn’t,” he said in a low voice, practically spitting out the words. “He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew some of the fantasies I have about him. Wicked, depraved thoughts. You wouldn’t say that if you knew.” He didn’t deserve Father Brown’s pity. Didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. Didn’t deserve it. He had to make him see that. “My priest...” he added, voice trailing away, thought left unspoken.

“Then tell me.” Father Brown’s voice retained its calm tone, but Flambeau could have sworn he heard the slightest tremble to it.

“Tell you?”

Father Brown’s voice was barely more than a whisper, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying either. “You’re here to confess, aren’t you? Then confess. Tell these fantasies of yours to me.”

Flambeau felt, not for the first time in the past five minutes, not unlike all of the wind had been punched out of him. His thoughts racing, a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. For the first time in several minutes, he braved a glance to his left. Father Brown himself was staring determinedly forward, his face neutral, but an unmistakeable faint blush spreading across his cheeks.

 _Oh,_ Flambeau thought. _He really does want me to… Oh._ He grinned to himself. He couldn’t help but feel this was a very strange situation to be in, and a very strange way to go about things, from both their ends, but then perhaps there was nothing ordinary about their relationship from the start. What were they even, to each other? Just two lost and damaged men, weathered by the storm, clinging to each other for dear life in a tumultuous world? He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. This was no time to get poetic.

“…Hercule?”

Flambeau coughed lightly. “Right,” he said, clearing his breath, closing his eyes, and taking a sigh. “Right.”

_Time to confess._

“I like to imagine him holding me. Touching me,” he spoke, the words slipping out as though in a dream, as though he didn’t have full control, although whatever dark spirit had possessed him at least had the presence of mind to start slowly and gently, rather than diving in at the deep end. “Holding me in place so I can’t flee, while he strokes me to release. I touch myself, and I imagine it’s him. I lie awake with myself in my hands, wishing it were him.”

He felt a flush creeping up his own neck, and a stirring between his legs. He shifted uncomfortably on the cold wooden seat. _These confessional boxes really weren’t built for comfort,_ he thought. _Perhaps you’re supposed to sit there in discomfort and think about what you’ve done. Or perhaps you’re not supposed to take this long._

He leaned back, licked his lips, and continued. “I imagine myself sitting alone in church, pleasuring myself while he delivers a sermon. From his spot in the pulpit, only he and his God can see what I’m doing. All the good little God-fearing Catholics have around me in the congregation have no idea what I’m doing, or why their perfect priest seems so flustered. After the service, he tells me to stay.” Absentmindedly, Flambeau’s hand crept between his legs, rubbing at the growing bulge in his trousers as he spoke. “He tells me to kneel before the altar and pray for forgiveness. So I kneel. For him. I suck him off, as he leans against the altar and murmurs prayers into the silence, his fingers in my hair.”

He paused for breath, and to steady himself. Every fibre of him burned with arousal.

“…Carry on.” Father Brown’s voice was quiet, gasping, strained. As Flambeau glanced to his left, he was thrilled to see the priest’s face also flushed with, if he wasn’t mistaken, arousal.

 _Interesting_ , he thought, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I imagine that he knows my sins, all of them, and he _wants_ me nonetheless. I imagine him blessing me, _purifying_ me, by slowly stripping me naked, tying me down, exploring every inch of my body with his hands and his mouth, making me feel like an entirely new person.” He cursed under his breath, hissing as he ran a hand over his length, still trapped inside the cotton prison of his trousers. He was rambling now, he knew, and the torture was almost unbearable, but he knew he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. He had to press on, to cleanse himself, almost. He wondered briefly if this was a warped version of the normal appeal behind taking confession.

“I imagine I’m doing dealings with some dangerous villain or other, and they kidnap him. I heroically rescue him before any harm can come to him, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

The hint of amusement in the priest’s breathless voice forced a soft chuckle out of Flambeau’s own mouth. How could an entire situation simultaneously feel so wrong, and so utterly right?

“I find him chained to a wall and I kiss him, fervently. I free him and he's so grateful that he drops to his knees then and there and sucks me off, not caring if anyone walks in.” He paused for breath once more, pawing at himself, silently cursing the layers of fabric between his hand and his cock. “Sometimes, of course,” he managed to gasp out. “I image it the other way around. I’m the one chained to the wall, and he’s kissing me, touching me, doing whatever he wants do me. I'd let him, you know. Do anything at all.” He hissed. “Oh _Father_ ,” he whispered, shocking himself with how genuinely desperate and miserable he sounded. “Oh _fuck,_ I want you.” He stopped, suddenly, realising what he’d said.

They’d both known full well, of course, who it was Flambeau was talking about, but actually saying it out loud felt dangerous. Electric. Like breaking a spell. Like crossing another point of no return.

He glanced up, wondering if Father Brown had heard, had registered. The priest’s face was flushed, his breathing shallow, but he met Flambeau’s gaze and gave the tiniest of nods. “Yes,” he whispered, sounding quiet, resigned, but not unsure. “I want you too.”

That was all Flambeau need to hear. To hell with the consequences, he’d waited long enough. He leapt to his feet, exited the confessional, and entered into it again, closing the door behind him as he stood trembling before his priest, in all his clerical finery.

Father Brown blinked up at him, looking mildly surprised, but not alarmed, despite their sudden intoxicating closeness. “What are you doing?” he asked. Curiosity, not judgement, Flambeau noted.

“Paying penance.”

Father Brown quirked a questioning eyebrow at him.

Flambeau swallowed heavily, composing himself, and spoke. “I've sinned, Father,” he said, simply. “I need to pay penance. That’s how it works, isn’t it? Except we both know your God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. But as we have established, your sole purpose is to be God’s vessel on this Earth. So even if I may never get on my knees for your God – let me get on my knees for you.”

And with that he sunk to his knees before the priest, not an easy task considering the small space they were currently sat within. _These boxes were really not built for two,_ he thought, mildly. He gazed up at his priest, enraptured, scarcely believing he’d got this far. “Father?” He asked, softly. “Let me. Let me show you pleasure. If you want me to?”

“Kiss me,” Father Brown breathed. “Kiss me first. Please?”

Flambeau scrambled to oblige, ending up in a very undignified position, half standing and half sitting in the Father’s lap, and not caring a bit. He took the priest’s face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his lips, gentle at first, but earnest. Father Brown grasped at Flambeau’s arm and kissed back clumsily, a strange desperation in his movements. Emboldened, Flambeau parted his lips, letting his tongue slip inside that other mouth, savouring it. As they broke apart, Father Broke gazed into Flambeau’s eyes, normally gentle eyes filled with an odd wildness and longing, lips wet and parted. _I could get drunk on this,_ Flambeau thought. _I could drown in this._ Father Brown placed a warm, trembling palm on Flambeau’s cheek. Flambeau leant into the touch with a sigh, grateful for any small contact.

“Hercule,” Father Brown whispered, with a quiet almost disbelieving reverence to his voice that sent shivers down Flambeau’s spine. “Are you _sure_ this is what you want? Are you – are you sure _I’m_ what you want?”

Flambeau let out a short high-pitched laugh that sounded a little too much like it was bordering on a sob for his liking. “Father,” he said, in a disbelief of his own. “That’s about the only thing I _am_ sure of. I couldn’t tell you _why_ , or - or _when_ this even happened, but I am sure of how I feel. I’m sure of _you_. Completely sure.” He leaned forwards and shakingly pressed another chaste kiss to Father Brown’s lips. “Let me. Let me get on my knees for you,” he whispered. “Let me _worship_ you. It’s what you deserve.”

Father Brown shivered, and nodded. “Yes. Alright. Yes. Please.”

Flambeau smiled and unceremoniously slithered onto the floor once more. Gently, ever so gently, he nudged Father Brown’s legs further apart, allowing him to wriggle between them, ever closer. He tutted in frustration. There were altogether too many layers between him and his prize. All of them had some wretched symbolism too, he seemed to recall. _Goddamn Catholics,_ he thought, as he loosened the thin rope-like belt around the priest’s waist. _A cincture. Represents chastity,_ he recalled, with an ironic smile, as he removed the offending item, pressing it into the Father’s hand. _Seems a little ridiculous to have that here, considering what I’m about to do._ He got a strange thrill from realising the priest would be thinking much the same thing. He glanced up at Father Brown and gave him an amused smile.

“Oh hush,” Father Brown said, meekly, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“I didn’t say anything!” Flambeau protested, indignantly.

“You didn’t have to.” Father Brown’s voice was admonishing, but he reached down and softly ran the tips of his fingers through Flambeau’s hair. Flambeau felt a shiver of delight run through his body, and grinned wider.

He lifted Father Brown’s alb, giving the priest a little tap on his thigh, urging him to wriggle in a way that allowed Flambeau to bunch it up around his waist. With a snort of frustration, he impatiently ripped open the lower buttons of the cassock. Finally, he slowly ran a finger over the bulge in the Father’s trousers, smirking at the barely audible whine that escaped from Father Brown’s mouth. The priest’s fingers found their way into Flambeau’s hair once more, _petting_ him, and it was all Flambeau could do not to moan himself. In a fervour, he unbuckled the older man’s trousers, finally freeing his erect cock.

Flambeau gasped despite himself, then made a small hum of appreciation. It was thick, thicker than expected, and a pleasing length, although not too long. It was also painfully hard, and precum already leaked out of the tip. _Gorgeous,_ he thought. “Someone’s pleased to see me,” he murmured, slowly stroking it, and smiling up at the Father.

“I’m always pleased to see you,” Father Brown gasped out breathlessly, petting Flambeau’s hair once more.

Flambeau gave a soft affectionate chuckle and leaned into the touch as best he could, before leaning forward, and licking the precum from the tip of the priest’s cock with the tip of his tongue. Father Brown gave a shuddering gasp, and his fingers tightened in Flambeau’s hair, seemingly unconsciously pulling Flambeau closer to his throbbing erection.

“Father,” he murmured, not at all displeased by this turn of events. He gave the cock another slow stroke, slender fingers handling it with as much care and devotion as they might show to a rare jewel. “I can’t believe you were prepared to hide this from the world, forever.”

It appeared to Flambeau that the bloodflow between Father Brown’s legs rather than in his magnificent brain made him a lot more honest and straightforward than usual. “I didn’t meet anyone worth breaking my vows for until I met you,” he muttered, simply.

Flambeau felt as though his heart may explode out of his chest. “Oh?” he said, trying and failing to keep the unrestrained delight out of his voice. “I am special to you, then?”

Father Brown gave a single nod, not making eye contact. “You’re – you’re not like anyone. You are special. You are. You-”

His words broke off with another sharp gasp as Flambeau swirled his tongue around the tip of his cock.

 _“Hercule!”_ he hissed, before suddenly breaking off, freezing _._

Flambeau froze too, sitting back on his heels, suddenly alert. A footstep, outside the box. Someone had entered the church. _Ah._ _This will be rather difficult to explain to any sinful parishioners coming to confess,_ he thought, wryly.

As though reading his mind, Father Brown suddenly pulled him closer, and pulled the alb down over his head, in some vague attempt to hide him from view. The mental image of what they must look like was so comical, Flambeau had to stifle a laugh, prompting an admonishing hand on his head through the fabric, serving only to push his face closer to the priest’s still erect cock. _The alb represents purity, if I remember correctly,_ he thought. _There’s probably some Freudian symbolic meaning to be read into the use of it to hide a thief and an erection from public view._ He hoped he could rely on his priest to listen for the owner of the footsteps to be gone. The rest of his senses were far too overwhelmed for him to focus on anything else. His head swam with how much he yearned to relieve the Father’s erection, and his whole body ached with how much he desperately yearned for someone to relieve his. He rubbed at his own bulge through his trousers once more, rocking ever so slightly on his heels, the quietest of moans slipping out of his lips. The hand on his head softly petted him once again, a comforting, shushing gesture, as though he were a particularly pathetic pet dog. The half of him that was insulted battled with the quite frankly ridiculous half of him that took unreasonable delight in the slightest physical affection for a few seconds, and lost. The footsteps were still outside the box, but luckily they didn’t appear to be coming in, merely fussing around.

 _Mrs McCarthy,_ he thought, recognising the footfall. _Flower arranging no doubt, or something equally quaint._ The thought of dear Mrs McCarthy finding out what her beloved priest was getting up to caused an amused smile to tug at Flambeau’s lips. _It’s not the Kembleford police I have to worry about,_ he thought in amusement. _It’s an angry Bridget McCarthy, after she finds out how I’ve corrupted the dear Father._

Finally, after what felt like an age, the footsteps pattered away, the church door swung shut, and there was silence.

“That woman really picks her moments,” Flambeau said, as the alb was lifted off of him. “Do you think she has some kind of secret sense, that tells her when the worst possible moment to enter a room would be?”

Father Brown frowned at him. “Don’t,” he said, reproachfully. “I am sorry about that though,” he added after a few moments, looking genuinely apologetic.

Flambeau made a small “hmph” noise in response, and gave a long slow stroke up the priest’s cock, brushing a thumb over the head. Father Brown hissed, and squirmed rather delightfully.

“Hercule, _please_ ,” he panted out.

Flambeau looked up at him, and gave a small smirk of amusement. “Please what?” he asked, as innocently as he could muster. Truth be told he desperately wanted the priest’s cock inside of him as much as he did, but the very idea of Father Brown _begging_ for him did things to him that he simply couldn’t ignore.

“ _Please_ , Hercule. _Please_.”

The sight of Father Brown looking so thoroughly undone was almost too much for Flambeau. There he was, the perfect priest in his vestments sitting his holy confessional box, and he was trembling, gasping, his face flushed, he garments crumbled, his erection standing proud against them, Flambeau on his knees before him, and he was _begging_ for Flambeau’s attention. It was like one of Flambeau’s filthiest fantasies come true before him. _I did this,_ Flambeau thought, proudly, scarcely believing it himself. _He’s like this because of **me**._

He couldn’t take it anymore. He took the priest’s cock in his mouth and set into a rhythm, bobbing up and down, lost in the moment. If anyone had entered the church at that point, he doubted he would’ve noticed a thing. He barely consciously registered when Father Brown resumed running his finger through his hair, and even then he didn’t stop or slow, he merely hummed a pleased sort of sound against the length in his mouth.

It didn’t take Father Brown long to finish. He came with a small cry, his ejaculate filling Flambeau’s throat and his senses. Flambeau swallowed, then sat back on his heels, smiling up his priest.

“How was that?”

“Wonderful,” Father Brown breathed, a ghost of a smile on his mouth. “You really are wonderful.”

Flambeau’s grin widened. “You’re not the first to say so, Father, but it means so much more coming from you.”

Father Brown rolled his eyes, but there was no real energy behind the gesture. He scooted sideways on the wooden seat, and patted the space next to him. “Come here,” he murmured.

Flambeau raised an eyebrow quizzically, but obediently stood up and squeezed on the seat beside his priest.

Father Brown looked at him, reached into his own pocket for something that he couldn’t find, and sighed. The priest turned his eyes heavenward, mouthed “Sorry” to the sky, much to Flambeau’s amusement, and wiped at Flambeau’s mouth and chin with his stole. _Purple, for the sacrament of reconciliation,_ said the annoying part of Flambeau’s brain that refused to let him forget all these clerical details. “Hercule?” he said, in a small, uncertain voice, that was really quite unfairly adorable. God, Flambeau wanted to kiss him again.

“Yes?”

A pause. Then: “…Nothing. It’s nothing. It can wait.”

Flambeau frowned. “Father, if there’s something you want to say-”

“It can wait.” A simple statement, yet one Flambeau felt there was little point arguing with. “This is your time, Hercule. This is about you.” And then, to Flambeau’s wonder and amazement, Father Brown’s hands found Flambeau’s belt, quickly and swiftly got it open, and then- _Oh, Christ,_ Flambeau thought, as Father Brown’s gentle hand first wrapped itself around his cock.

Flambeau made a small whining noise as Father Brown gave a first few tentative strokes. He rocked his hips, rutting his cock into the priest’s warm palm.

“You’re not irredeemable, you know,” murmured Father Brown, snapping Flambeau out of the cloud of bliss he was sinking into. “God will forgive you.”

 _“What??”_ Flambeau snapped in disbelief. _Impossible man,_ he thought. _Delivering a sermon with my cock in his hand. Ridiculous._

Father Brown stopped stroking, though he didn’t let go. He turned away, blushing. “I just… thought you ought to know.”

Flambeau gave a disbelieving laugh, then leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to Father Brown’s cheek. “I don’t care if God forgives me or not, you ridiculous man,” he whispered into his ear. “It’s you who I come here to see, not God. I only care what _you_ think of me.”

Father Brown smiled at him then, a warm, affectionate smile that made his whole face shine and his eyes sparkle. “I think you’re wonderful,” he whispered.

Flambeau felt as though no blessing from a God could ever have felt the way that felt, no divine being could ever be as worthy of being worshipped and adored as his priest.

Absentmindedly, his hand crept down to his crotch. Before he could touch himself, however, Father Brown caught his wandering hand with his own free hand, and held it in place. Flambeau made a small grunt of frustration, and furrowed his brow in silent question. Father Brown paused and bit his lip as though he himself was questioning what he was doing, then he spoke.

“Do you trust me, Hercule?”

“Yes.” Flambeau surprised even himself by how quickly he answered, and by how little doubt or hesitation there was to his answer. “Of course. Completely.”

Father Brown released Flambeau’s hand momentarily, reached into his pocket once more, and pulled something out. The cincture, Flambeau realised.

“A cincture,” Father Brown said, unnecessarily, when he glanced up to see Flambeau staring at it, wide eyed. “It represents-”

“Chastity, yes, I know.” Flambeau’s mouth suddenly felt very dry.

“Ah. Yes. Well.”

Flambeau sat still, mutely allowing Father Brown to take both his hands and tie them together behind his back, still too stunned to react. It wasn’t a particularly tight or secure knot, he could easily have freed himself if he wanted to, but he half suspected that was the point. It was symbolic, if anything.

“Is that alright?” Father Brown asked, gently.

Flambeau nodded, mutely but enthusiastically. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so aroused. He rocked his hips again, desperate for any kind of release, now he didn’t even have the friction of his trousers to rub against.

“It’s alright,” Father Brown murmured soothingly, taking Flambeau’s cock in his warm hand once again. “I’ve got you.” And he began to gently and rhythmically stroke, Flambeau rocking in time with the strokes.

“I would tear worlds apart for you,” growled Flambeau, voice low and thick with lust, vaguely aware he was entirely beyond reason. “I would burn cities to the ground for you.”

“Please don’t!”

The hint of genuine alarm in Father Brown’s voice at Flambeau’s sudden declaration caused a warm, genuine laugh to bubble up through his throat. “Father,” he murmured, leaning closer to his priest, just needing with every fibre of his being to be as close to him as possible. Needing, as shameful as it felt to admit it, even to himself, to be held. “Father.”

As though reading his mind, Father Brown put his free arm around Flambeau’s shoulders and held him close, while his other hand stroked him to orgasm. His orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave, and it must have caused his brain to skip a few beats, because the next thing he knew, his face was buried in the crook of Father Brown’s neck, and the priest was gently wiping the two of them clean with the now well and truly soiled stole. Father Brown sighed, stuffed the stole into his pocket, and wrapped both arms around Flambeau, holding him tightly, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

To his mortification and bewilderment, Flambeau felt strangely choked up, and tears prickled and burned at his eyes. Before his brain could fully regain control and stop him, he struggled to free his hands from their makeshift bonds, and once he had done so, wound his own arms tightly around Father Brown in return, clinging to him. The confessional box was still cold and hard, but the priest within was soft and warm, and he smelt like coming home, and Flambeau didn’t ever want to let go. He felt as though he truly was clinging on for dear life, now. If he let go now he might get dragged into the tumultuous storm and be lost forever.

“I love you,” Father Brown murmured, suddenly. “I love you so very much. I love you with everything I have.”

Flambeau stiffened in his arms. Breathing had suddenly become rather difficult.

“It’s alright,” the priest continued, softly, turning his head slightly to press another kiss into Flambeau’s hair. “You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. I can wait. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Flambeau curled in even tighter, clinging even closer, as though trying to disappear. “Thank you,” he whispered. His voice was muffled, his face buried in Father Brown’s shoulder, but a gently caressing hand on the back of his neck and another kiss to his hairline reassured him he had been heard.

They stayed like that in silence for a few long moments, just holding each other, and listening to each other breathing.

Eventually, Flambeau shifted, breaking the spell.

“I should go,” he said.

Father Brown’s arms did not move from around him. “You don’t have to,” he said, his voice heavy with some emotion Flambeau couldn’t quite place. “You could stay a while.”

Flambeau frowned, wriggling to sit up a little and look his priest in the face. “It’s getting late, Father. We can’t stay here all night.”

It was Father Brown’s turn to frown, shaking his head. He looked strangely sad in a way that Flambeau decided he didn’t like one bit. “No, no I didn’t mean-” He sighed. “I didn’t mean you could stay _here_. I meant you could stay here. In Kembleford. For a while. If you want.” He sighed again, not making eye contact. “There’s room for you at the presbytery. You’ve always been welcome there,” he added, in a quiet, barely audible voice.

Flambeau’s breath caught in his throat. The idea danced in his head. Visions of sitting in the presbytery kitchen in pajamas. He and Father Brown eating breakfast together. Sleeping in the same bed. Reading in an armchair of an evening while Father Brown listened to the radio. Taking tea and strawberry scones with Mrs McCarthy and Miss Windermere. It was all so painfully soft and domestic, and entirely, utterly, impossible. That sort of safe cosy life didn’t belong to men like him. The door to that life had been locked to him long ago.

And yet…

And yet, what’s a locked door to a thief? Can it hurt to pick a lock and just peak inside, every once in a while?

He shook his head firmly, trying to block out those thoughts. Dreaming was dangerous.

Flambeau regretted the action almost immediately. Father Brown’s face fell at the vigorous head-shaking. He looked genuinely crestfallen and truly miserable, and Flambeau hated it.

“No, Father, I-” He sighed. “I don’t know what I want anymore, Father,” he whispered. “I’m so _tired_.”

He almost wept with relief when Father Brown’s arms tightened around him once more, pulling him close, a soothing hand finding its way back to the back of Flambeau’s neck. “Then rest,” said the priest, softly. “You’re always running, always fighting. Just this once, stay a while. Rest.”

It did sound strangely tempting. Flambeau sighed. He wished he understood the strange hold the strange priest had over him. He said nothing.

“Just stay for a week,” Father Brown continued, soothingly. “Just one week, no crime, no danger, just _rest_. Please. After that, you can go wherever you want, do whatever you want to do, whatever and wherever it is, I won’t try and stop you. I promise.”

“Anything at all? You won’t try to stop me?” Flambeau said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

A small hesitation, then: “No. I promise.”

“Pity. I always liked it when you try to stop me.”

Father Brown laughed then, a warm genuine laugh, and it was the most wonderful sound Flambeau had ever heard. He sat up a little, pressing another clumsy kiss to Father Brown’s cheek. The priest turned his head, catching the thief’s mouth with his own, smiling into the slow, lazy kiss.

“So, what’s your answer?” he breathed when they broke apart. “Will you stay?”

“Alright,” said Flambeau, flippantly, as though his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. “Just for now. If it’s what you want.”

And in that moment, seeing Father Brown’s delighted smile, his eyes shining in the dim light, Flambeau didn’t believe he could ever have chosen anything else.


End file.
